Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

I averted my eyes from the Old Palace then. A leaden chill made me pull my feradje more tightly about my shoulders. I felt vaguely resentful at Hamza for telling me this. In a small gesture of punishment, I let my yashmak fall forward so it hid my eyes and mouth and didn’t speak again until we landed on Prinkipo Island.

The Sublime Porte, I learned later, was nothing more than a heavy stone building crouching by the side of the Golden Horn.

When I was a child at Nishantashou, only Papa moved freely between the harem, where Papa’s mother and Mama presided, and the rest of the house. As a child I had a certain freedom to explore, as long as I did not interrupt the gatherings of men that my father held many evenings in the salon. That was easy enough to do, as the rumble of their voices could be heard at quite a distance.

Hamza and a succession of other tutors taught me to read and write Ottoman and Persian and introduced me to French and English, all of which my forward-looking father considered necessary skills for a modern Ottoman woman in order for her to be a suitable wife, entertaining and speaking intelligently with her husband’s guests. I overheard Papa explain this to Hamza and wondered at the time why Mama refused to help Papa entertain. Later, I understood that Aunt Hüsnü was willing to dress in a Frankish gown, her face uncovered, and mingle with Papa’s male guests and their modern wives, while my mother was unable to bring herself to drop her veil and stand naked, as it would seem to her, before strangers. Servants used to stretch a tunnel of silk between the front door and the carriage so that Mama could leave the house without being seen.

Of all my lessons, I looked forward to Hamza’s the most. I practiced intensely in order to impress him, to gain the reward of his broad smile and words of praise when he realized what I had accomplished-and to avoid the thin drumming of his fingers on the table when I struggled. I strove to tether his eyes and was anguished when his gaze floated free, perhaps mesmerized by the brilliant reflections on the distant water or drawn through the vivid sky to thoughts that precluded me. I was jealous even of the sea. I was infatuated with Hamza and in love with Papa and, at least in that, I did my duty as a young girl. I learned in order to please them. It was my luck (although some might think it misfortune) that just then I moved into the orbit of Ismail Dayi, who had no such preconceptions about what and why young women were to learn.

But when we moved to Chamyeri, I was heartbroken at leaving Papa and Hamza. I missed the familiar rooms and servants and the view from my window of the minarets of the grand imperial mosques. In Nishantashou, we had countless servants. I was surrounded by the babble of their many languages: Turkish, Greek, Italian, Armenian, Arabic.

Chamyeri, by contrast, was frightening in its silence. The servants came during the day, as needed. For the most part, they did their work silently, sliding sideways looks at Mama and me when they thought our attention elsewhere. I wondered what they gossiped in the village about this unusual household-my uncle, his dreaming sister, and the lonely girlchild no one was raising. But eventually I came to appreciate the silence, the unlimited time to read and explore, the riches of my young life-a library, a wide sky, mine for as long as I cared to hold it, the flexing waters of the strait, a fragrant garden, and, in the forest, the pond with its ebony depths that made me just fearful enough to be satisfied.

I realize now that Hamza’s visits to Chamyeri were possible only because of my mother’s and Ismail Dayi’s loose supervision. We would meet in the pavilion in the darkening afternoon. Sitting cross-legged on the divan, we discussed books and poetry. Hamza described Europe, the boulevards and cafés of Paris. If, on occasion, he seemed distracted, I attributed it to the insignificance of my experiences. After the cook left the kitchen at night, I stole lemons and brought them with me to bed, inhaling their scent under the quilt, imagining it to be Hamza’s citrusy cologne, the roughness of the peel against my nose the sting of stubble on his cheek.

Not long after our boat trip to Prinkipo Island, Madam Élise came to live at Chamyeri. Before long, Ismail Dayi forbade Hamza to visit. I heard him tell mother that it was improper for a young man in the crazy blood of youth to spend the night in a house with unmarried women. Mama protested, but Ismail Dayi would not relent. He even forbade visits during the day. Hamza disobeyed him, arriving after Ismail Dayi’s carriage had disappeared down the road. But he came less often and never stayed very long. He told me not to let Mama know he was there. I was sad for Mama because I knew how much she enjoyed his company, but flattered that he had braved the danger of my dayi’s wrath to see me. Still, I missed our ritual and, for a long time, was unable to sleep until the early hours of the morning. I wandered through the dark rooms, listening for the clear chime of his voice, and huddled on the divan in the room where he had slept, the mattresses and quilts now stored away in a cabinet. Though Madam Élise’s French was more fluent than Hamza’s, in her mouth the language was a pale, sticky gum of sounds. Sometimes, sitting in the fragrant garden watching the night fishermen, I imagined I heard his voice.

Niko’s smile wavers only a moment as he opens the heavy, brass-studded door to find Kamil Pasha next to a skinny man with a face the color of yoghurt and hair like the setting sun.

“Your arrival pleases me,” Niko booms, a gap-toothed grin beneath his luxuriant black mustache. At first glance, the hamambashou appears fat, but his chest is deep and well muscled from kneading the bodies of his charges. It is thatched with wet black hair. A red-checked peshtemal towel covers him from waist to knees.

“I am pleased to see you.” Kamil turns to Bernie and is disconcerted to see his teeth in a wide grin. “Decorum,” he can’t help himself from saying. “Decorum is important.”

“Yeah, right. Sorry, buddy.” Bernie composes his face into a caricature of seriousness.

Kamil is apprehensive. It is the first time he has allowed anyone to accompany him to the hamam. He is no longer sure how it came about that Bernie is standing here now. Had he suggested it yesterday evening, or had Bernie? Either way, a bottle of potent raki had played a part. He has undertaken to bring Bernie to the baths, and he must make sure the experiment does not go awry. He follows Niko into the cooling-off room, trailed by Bernie, whose eyes are everywhere at once. The other men in the room look shocked, then quickly hide their expressions.

There are whispers. “A giavour, a heathen.”

Kamil sees Fat Orhan propped on his side on a divan, a sheet wrapped about his middle. His red face is immobile, but his eyes follow their progress across the room.

Niko gives Bernie the cubicle next to Kamil’s.

“Hang your clothing in there.” Kamil indicates the wardrobe with the palm of his hand. “Then wrap yourself in this towel.”

“What towel? Oh, you mean this cloth.” Bernie picks up the peshtemal. “You could make a suit out of this amount of material. Or maybe a kilt.” He whinnies a laugh, then catches himself.

“Sorry, sorry. Decorum. I know.” He pats Kamil on the back. “Don’t worry. I won’t embarrass you.”

Kamil cringes at the unaccustomed intimacy. He forces a smile. “I’m not in the least worried.” He goes to his own cubicle and, with relief, closes the door. He hears knocking and rustling sounds from next door, as if Bernie is examining everything. Which he probably is, decides Kamil. Perhaps I would do the same. The thought cheers him, with its intimation of scientific inquiry and exploration of new things. But with decorum, he decides. Truth and decorum. The stamen and pistil of civilization, by which it reproduces itself. Either alone is sterile.